His Wolf
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: When an assignment for the Queen gets irreparably botched, Vincent is rescued by the unlikeliest of agents: a wolf. - - Diederich & Vincent Phantomhive
1. Chapter 1

_Title:_ His Wolf

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Kuroshitsuji (pre-canon; mangaverse)

_Pairing:_ Diederich/Vincent Phantomhive

_Rating:_ M

_Warnings:_ different variety of adult themes, including but not restricted to - sexual content, torture (very much present in the first chapter), other forms of violence, death, psychological exploration, psychological manipulation, criminal underworld, etc.

_Summary:_ When an assignment for the Queen gets irreparably botched, Vincent is rescued by the unlikeliest of agents: a wolf.

_Author's Note:_ Diederich has such a brief "canon" appearance that it'd probably be best to remind readers of where he pops up. XD;; Chapter 32 of the manga, around page 6 (in the background sitting on the armchair next to Vincent) and speaking to Vincent on page 7. It's uncertain as to what his last name is, so I'm snagging mhikaru's name from the story that we're co-writing and will be putting up later (which will be titled "Conflicts of Interest," fyi): Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff. So credit for Deeds' full name goes _all_ to her~ –hearts- Many thanks also go to CaladriaHaru for introducing me to this pairing, as well as Kaletin for the creation of the fan club dedicated to said pairing on BlackButler(dot)net. ;D

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**His Wolf**

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_Chapter One_

It didn't seem to matter how many assignments Vincent had gone on before: all it had taken was one mistake and everything had easily fallen apart. It had been such a minor thing, too: a smile at the wrong person at the wrong time, and then the situation had snowballed out of control. It had been too late to try to escape—all of the exits had been blocked by the crime lord's men, anyway—and all that had been left to do was go with the lackeys down into the hidden rooms.

Perhaps with little protest, the crime ring might end up releasing him, thinking that they had caught the wrong man—that this all had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, and Vincent had turned into the exceptionally unlucky victim.

The Queen's Watchdog knew better than to hope for rescue.

But it was hard to keep from hoping that reinforcements would come as the whip once more came down on his back, raising welts and drawing blood where the previous day's beating had bruised his skin. Again and again the whip came down, and English aristocratic pride seemed absolutely paltry now: all that kept him from screaming at the pain or biting his tongue clean through was the piece of leather that the men had forced into his mouth so that Vincent would bite down on that and nothing else.

Again. And again.

Again.

_Again_.

He couldn't remember when he had blacked out, which number had finally overwhelmed his ability to tolerate and endure through the pain. But unconsciousness was a welcome escape by this point and it was one that Vincent gladly took advantage of. To leave behind the hopelessness of the situation, even for just a moment—it was the oblivion that he welcomed and embraced with open arms.

There were many who would have been able to endure the pain better—perhaps—but Vincent's specialties had always resided with manipulations, working through the Ton and through the Underground, charming those who were otherwise unmovable with the quiet softness of his smile. They fell for it: men and women both eagerly sought him out, searching for him with avid eyes, hoped for a glance when they met—an acknowledgement from the beautiful aristo. Even those in the Underground never truly realized just how dangerous Vincent was; the connections that he had cultivated spanned across Europe, and Vincent knew more about current goings-on than the Queen's official spymaster.

He was the best at what he did, was as graceful as a jaguar with a sword and could put Frances to shame with a gun—but with neither at his disposal, all Vincent could do was continue on through the pain.

And enjoy the darkness while it lasted.

**XXX**

Vincent awoke on his belly, body haphazardly sprawled over the thin cot in the room that he had been assigned when his jailors had first brought him here. His skin was goose-pimpled with the cold, and the Evil Nobleman could feel the sluggish trickling of blood as it made its way over his back and down his sides. With the days that he had been kept here (if it _was_ days; time had skewed and Vincent couldn't even trust in the regularity of the schedule in which they fed him) and the number of times that he had been put under his captors' tender care, Vincent knew that his back probably looked like a shredded mess.

There would be whipping scars, thick ones from the feel of his wounds; the criss-cross shape of them would be impossible to disguise, to laugh off as a childhood accident for those who might accidentally see. The loss of one of his masks, the disguise of the pale-skinned and elegant English aristocrat, tightened his chest and Vincent could only clutch his fingers tight into the threadbare sheets beneath him. One less weapon in his arsenal, one less layer to bury himself in when he went hunting—though it would only matter if he managed to escape in the end.

Somehow.

He refused to give up: there would be an opening, and the Queen's Watchdog would take it. Vincent expected nothing less of himself—always the best, striving to hone his abilities, the most dangerous man in Britain who watched and struck from the shadows.

Vincent needed to continue being that man.

But when the door to his cell opened and two of the men he recognized stepped into his room, the Phantomhive head couldn't stop the brief spasm of despair from clogging his throat and keeping the breath from his lungs for several long moments.

_Not again._

**XXX**

They used salt this time.

It was with steady pressure that one of the jailors continued to push salt into the open wounds on Vincent's back, and the noble didn't bother trying to stifle his cries anymore. It was relentless, the pain—consuming everything as it burrowed its way into his body and soul, breaking both… but not his mind.

"What is your name?"

"V-Vincent Phantomhive," the blue-eyed man gasped out, fingers curling tight over the chains that connected to the cuffs that bound his hands, Vincent's grasp desperate enough to make the metal cut into his palms to draw even more blood. It was red, dark red—red enough to match his vision, the shade of his skin. Dark enough, too, to match his rage.

"You are a noble, are you not? What is your ranking?"

"Earl," Vincent managed to get out after screaming when a second man rubbed salt over more of his lashes. His knees gave out, forcing his cuffed wrists to take on his complete weight, slight though it now was.

"Why did you attend the party?"

They tossed water on him before he could answer, dissolving the rock salt and letting it run further down his back—settling deep into lower wounds, forcing Vincent's body to shudder with both cold and pain. So much pain. And then they started with the salt again, unrelenting and as constant as the spiraling of the sun through the sky.

When Vincent was able to breathe once more as the men paused in their administration, he managed to whisper, "Wanted to f-find backers. For Funtom Company. That was it. Smiled at a m-man—thought I knew him—and then… this. _Please._ I'm telling the truth. Please let me go."

The torture continued, never varying in pace despite the fact that the questions did: different questions, similar questions but worded differently, questions asked to test the knowledge that they suspected Vincent truly had; questions, questions, questions—a torrent of them, a cascade that was never ending. It was as horrifying as an avalanche, and through it all, Vincent's answers never deviated from what he had established before—and through the red haze of his gaze, he took his torturers' faces, imprinting them to memory. Their voices, too, were ones that Vincent knew that he would never forget, would remember and echo within his nightmares.

For hours, for what seemed like _days_, the men continued on with their interrogation, and Vincent fought to hang on to his sanity; he hid himself beneath his public mask, clinging desperately to the identity of "Vincent, head of the Phantomhive family and owner of the Funtom Company, current bachelor, well-liked Earl amongst the Ton." He forged the mask with iron, letting it ring strong as the men's tender mercies continued on without an end in sight, and he settled it firmly over his own sense of _self_ to protect that concept behind a fortress made up of lies.

**XXX**

The register continued on from that point on, the men alternating with the whip and the salt—hoping that one or the other would force Vincent to finally relinquish his true secrets, the ones that they weren't completely sure of but suspected he had.

The Queen's Watchdog did not break, however.

It was days later—days that had morphed into a meaningless measure of time when all there ever was was pain—when the door to his cell opened at a time that didn't follow the usual schedule for _more pain_ and his meals (though calling what he was given "food" was paying the group's men a compliment that they most assuredly didn't earn). Vincent turned his head to the side to watch the dark-haired man step into his room. He effortlessly made his way around the plates of food that Vincent hadn't bothered to eat, steps military-based in their regularity. He was one of the men that were forced to remain in the room while the others beat Vincent, though whenever the Phantomhive caught a glimpse of this man, his head was always turned away.

The other man stared down at Vincent with hazel-tinted eyes, some emotion within his gaze darkening the color slowly to brown. "You've lasted longer than was expected," the man finally said, voice barely above a murmur; the baritone was flavored with some foreign accept—German, perhaps?—and Vincent continued watching the man silently.

The silence stretched on for long moments, and Vincent wasn't the one to finally end it. The foreigner huffed an annoyed sigh and said, voice still low, "My name is Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff. I am one of your Queen's agents, a sleeper one; I was sent here to infiltrate the crime group and then was ordered to assassinate you if it looked as if you would cave beneath the torture. You haven't, though—and so I have come to present you with an offer: I have been given a new assignment, one that I will need help with. If I free you, I will require you to help me eradicate the members of this group and then assist me with my new orders."

Vincent continued staring up at the other man—Diederich, if he was telling the truth—before snorting in derision and turning his face away to stare at the wall. "If you truly believe that your proposition is actually realistic, then you are sorely mistaken," the noble said, giving his best attempt at a bemused drawl despite the current circumstances that he found himself in.

Diederich scowled in irritation before leaning over Vincent's cot; his lips brushed against the Earl's pierced ear and with a soft exhale, breathed out a single word. The Queen's Watchdog stiffened immediately at that, once more turning his head to meet the foreigner's eyes. His gaze had previously been dull, obviously uninterested in things with the acceptance that his torture would never end until his eventual death. But now… _now_, things had changed. Vincent's blue eyes glinted with feral intent, the predator within him once more aroused at the chance to return the pain that he had been subjected to. That look completely changed Vincent's demeanor, and Diederich had to admit to himself that perhaps Vincent truly had been the best choice to partner him for the job.

"Do you believe yourself capable of fighting your way through if given the opportunity?" Diederich asked, knowing that he had to be aware of Vincent's limitations with the injuries that the nobleman—evil or not—had suspected beneath his captors' tender care.

In answer, Vincent's gaze darkened to midnight blue.

"If you give me back my sword and pistol, you'll be able to see for yourself, von Wolff."

For the first time in a month, Vincent smiled—the soft expression once more settling across his face, tugging his lips upwards in a sweet, soothing smile that lulled so many others to a false sense of security. His beauty shone through again, the charming aristo given hope and the chance to survive—and the opportunity to once again hunt in the grounds that he knew best.

But Diederich continued to watch Vincent's gaze and recognized the jungle cat that had been previously banked and hidden, camouflaged beneath a cultured veneer.

_This_ was the most dangerous man in all of Britain.

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

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He cut through the bodies before him with a grace that paired tightly with the threat that his role within Society represent: the Evil Nobleman, come to call; Vincent's sword flashed out, severing limbs and flicking slightly enough so that blood splattered over the walls of the mansion in elegant, abstract patterns. The Earl wielded his blade with his right hand, the left effortlessly marking different men for death—the gun went off, the bullet flew through the air, and man after man fell to the ground, dead with that bullet lodged firmly in their forehead.

Diederich was impressed.

The Prussian had heard rumors regarding Vincent Phantomhive's competence. He had assumed they were only rumors, however, despite the Watchdog's reputation amongst those that he hunted. Still, it was a different experience and realization finally _seeing_ what it was that he had previously been _hearing_ about: this man was deadly.

Diederich came in behind Vincent, ending the lives of those that Vincent hadn't bothered with when he struck out with his sword—and it didn't take long for the sleeper agent to notice that those that Vincent left to suffer with debilitating (and eventually life-threatening, though not in an immediate sense) were those that had been down in the torture room.

He ended those lives with a shot from his gun, knowing that he'd have to apologize to Earl Phantomhive later for ruining his game of cat and mouse, and the hunt that would have resulted from the horrors that had been done to him. Unfortunately, neither man had the time for it—in normal circumstances, Diederich wouldn't have cared. But he needed Vincent for his next mission, and he couldn't afford having the Watchdog be distracted by revenge left unfulfilled.

This would have to be enough for the Englishman because Diederich couldn't afford to allow for anything else.

Thus, so the Prussian continued his way forward, slaying the men that Vincent didn't have time to get to or the men that the Watchdog hadn't managed to notice in his bloodlust—those men Diederich killed swiftly, bullets flying through the air as men screamed in pain. It was gratifying finally lashing out at the people he had been slowly growing to loathe over the months: ending their corruption with an efficiency that showed his military training. Though he didn't have the grace or elegance in battle that Earl Phantomhive did, Diederich didn't much care. In the end, dead was dead.

And it was a relief to finally shed the sheep's clothing and reveal the wolf beneath.

**XXX**

Vincent could feel his wounds pulling tight across his skin with every lunge and parry, every downstroke and every thrust of his sword; what scabs had managed to form despite the torture he knew were being pulled away and leaving agony in their wake. He knew that the scars would be worse now.

But he couldn't bring himself to care at the immediate moment.

The Earl's mask was lowered as the tattered remains of his shirt clung to his back, blood running heavily over his skin; the iron fortress' drawbridge was lowered, and Vincent emerged from within the sheltering depths. As with the plague given unto Egypt, Vincent descended upon the men who had tortured him. He gave no quarter, no mercy, and his normally kind eyes were hard with predatory, hungry intent.

Vincent Phantomhive was who he was:

He was the Queen's hidden dagger, the man capable of balancing the line between light and darkness; the Ton's darling and the underworld's personal nightmare, the terror that waited for them in the shadows when their greed and cruelty overcame their self-preservation and caution.

Then he struck, as hard and as thoroughly as he did now.

And when the last man fell, gasping with the remnants of his sense of self—trying so hard to cling to the life that he had led, the life that Vincent had claimed for his own—the Earl reached down and took the man's cravat to use the silk cloth to clean his sword thoroughly before sheathing it.

"Are we done here?" Vincent asked, very carefully keeping his posture rigid as he looked over his shoulder to meet Diederich's assessing green-tinted eyes. The nobleman ignored the haze at the corner of his gaze, the way that it was difficult to think in linear patterns since his mind continuously wanted to drift off into a new tangent. He felt light-headed and dizzy, needing a hand to steady himself against the wall. The blood loss was not a new experience, and Vincent had no intention of letting it overcome him.

Diederich continued watching Vincent for several more silent moments, eyes narrowing and turning even more assessing, but he eventually nodded at the very end. "Yes, we are done. The members of the group have been effectively terminated, and they will no longer concern the Queen. Let's go."

Vincent gave no answer to that for his gestures were still as brusque as ever, and he pulled away from Diederich so that he could head for the manor's entrance—the doorway that he remembered stepping through so long ago and was finally stepping out.

It had seemed an eternity, and the Earl was glad to be leaving.

He didn't even make it to the waiting carriage before the trauma and loss of blood dragged him into unconsciousness, dropping to the cobblestones beneath his booted feet. He was still breathing, Diederich was relieved to see, but that still didn't change the fact that Vincent was still unconscious and Diederich's medical knowledge only contained the advice of "walk it off, you bloody fop." He stared down at the Earl, shifting imperceptibly from foot to foot as he debated what to do: going to the hospital was out, as well as notifying Vincent's butler—the assignment that Diederich was expected to fulfill relied upon the fact that most by now assumed the Earl dead. Eventually coming to a decision, one that he wasn't too particularly fond of, Diederich sighed and stooped to carefully gather Vincent into his arms.

"Well, damn," the Prussian muttered, irritated.

**XXX**

The first thing that Vincent became aware of was the gentle caress of fingers across his back; he couldn't stop the shiver at the sensation—the fingers were coated with some sort of salve, and the pain that had encompassed his world for days slowly began to fade in the touch's wake. It felt good, _so good_, at no longer having to immerse himself in pain. He stirred as the hands eased over the wings of his shoulder blades, spreading the salve over the worse of his lashes and welts—the men had enjoyed concentrating their whipping there and over the small of his back, knowing just how often those muscles were used by a person.

At the Earl's movement, however, the hands paused in their ministrations and lifted up from Vincent's back—unashamed, the Phantomhive heir moaned softly at the loss of the cooling caresses that quenched the fire of his back. "Please don't stop," Vincent murmured, his words barely audible and husky from his voice's lack of use.

Cautiously, the hands returned to smooth more of the medicinal salve over Vincent's wounds. The fingers lingered longest over the deepest lashes that the nobleman had received, layering the salve thickly to try to promote healing; it was an emergency medicinal treatment that he had learned to make in the military that was comprised of comfrey, beeswax, and tea-tree oil—with added bay berry bark and opium to help with the pain.

"It is helping?" the owner of the pair of hands asked, tone bordering on doubtful.

Vincent paused for a brief moment, startled by the German accent that laced the voice; he had expected Tanaka's soothing, familiar voice—had expected his butler to be the one to care for him now that he had managed to leave his prison. Instead, the Earl was left with… Vincent turned his head to the side, just enough to look over his shoulder from the corner of his eyes.

Diederich's hazel gaze met Vincent's own, and the other agent waited (not so) patiently for the Englishman's answer, a muscle slightly ticking regularly at the edge of the dark-haired man's jawline.

Gathering together his wits, Vincent let his mask once more fall down so that he could retreat to the fortress of stone and iron that he had built for himself while being tortured. The Earl's eyes softened with apparent gratitude, and he gave a slow, gentle smile before closing his eyes to once more rest his forehead against the pillow that had previously pressed against his cheek. "Yes, it is," Vincent answered. "Thank you. Thank you for returning my weapons to me—and thank you for dressing my wounds now."

Irritated by the gratitude—but only because it made him uncomfortable—Diederich shrugged, the gesture unseen by his current patient. "There is no need to thank me," the Prussian retorted as he inspected his work with the salve and reaching for a towel to wipe his hands clean. "I need you alive and healed to go through with the mission. It's only a means towards an end."

Vincent chuckled at that; at least the sleeper agent was honest.

"That may be true," Vincent said in reply, fingers flexing carefully over the blankets beneath his body—doing so to allow the muscles' ripple and pull to ease over his back, judging the extent of his wounds. The Queen's Watchdog stifled a hiss of pain and stopped his experiments: it would take a while to heal, and he would have to be careful while healing to ensure that the scars wouldn't go deep and ruin his range of motion. "However, if this is unusual for you, please notify my butler, Tanaka. He is efficient and discreet, and he has been with my family since my mother's time. He can be trusted."

The Prussian laughed openly at that. "No one can be trusted," he answered once the laughter had died down, easing away. He shook his head in bemusement despite the fact that Vincent wouldn't have been able to see. "The only reason why I'm bothering to include you in my assignment is because I need a partner and you're indebted to me for saving your life."

And, oh, how true _that_ statement was.

Earl Phantomhive gritted his teeth, swallowing down the surge of fury at the knowledge that he had been effectively trapped, and had been unable to do anything about it: either reject the offer of rescue and die at his captors' hands or take the offer and be tied to this man for as long as his mission would last. The choice had been easy enough to make at the time, and Vincent knew that he would still make the same choice if given another chance, but the fact that he had been cornered was nothing less than insulting.

However, when he managed to look up at Diederich once more, a small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, lashes lowered to give him a sleepy, defenseless look. "Since it seems as if you're the only one nursing me back to health… I can't remember the last time that I had something proper to eat. I'm hungry—starving, actually—and so may I request a meal, Mr. von Wolff?"

Diederich grunted something in reply, not bothering to put his answer into words, but the soldier did stand and head towards the bedroom door with his boots lightly thumping upon the wooden floors of Vincent's assigned room. When the Watchdog heard that those very same boots had made their way to the far end of the house that they were staying at, a mean, small smile flickered across his mouth as he reached for the telephone that had been otherwise just out of reach.

If the Prussian knew who Vincent truly was, then he shouldn't have relied on the Earl's apparent helplessness that would have otherwise kept him out of commission until he had healed completely; the Queen's Watchdog hadn't broken under torture, had never broken his mask despite the danger that he had oftentimes found himself in—and he would never, ever allow himself to remain helpless if he had the chance to arm himself.

In this case, Vincent summoned his sword and shield to guard his back until he was fit once more.

An hour later when Diederich returned to Vincent's sickroom with a tray loaded with nutritious broth and milk and other easy things that someone healing should eat—or so he remembered from the tents on the battle field as the doctors made quick work to nurse their soldiers back to full health. He stopped, though, at the sight that was presented to him:

An elderly gentleman dressed in a butler's garb was gently helping Vincent to sit up on the edge of the bed. Despite the opiates that the Prussian had included in the salve, the movements still hurt the Earl as evidenced by the tendons that stood out starkly in his throat, as well as the soft hissing sound that Vincent couldn't stifle.

"Who the hell is he?" Diederich snapped out, tray dropping to the floor as he rolled and drew his gun with one efficient movement. He braced himself, gun pointed steadily at the gentleman's head as Diederich watched the Earl from the corner of his eyes.

"This is Tanaka, my butler," Vincent murmured in answer, spreading his arms slightly—just enough for Tanaka to quickly and carefully wrap bandages around his torso. "I told you that he could be trusted and, besides, a lord must always have his butler by his side."

Suddenly, though, his gaze sharpened as he stared at Diederich, and the sleeper agent couldn't help but give the blue-eyed man his full attention. "Furthermore, he will be assisting us with your assignment. While I am indebted to you and have no other choice but to help you since you offered me that spidersilk thread of hope back there, I won't allow anything other than a full partnership. We'll be equals."

The Prussian snarled in answer, teeth bared threateningly as his temper loosened slightly from his iron-clad hold upon it. "This is _my_ mission. I was the one to offer you help, to free you from your prison. I'm the one in charge."

Vincent offered Diederich his trademark, quiet smile—but the jungle cat once more eased its way through his eyes, hunting through the thick foliage and eventually settling to wait patiently for the best time to strike.

"We will be equal partners in this, von Wolff."

Vincent's voice was implacable, and Diederich shifted the muzzle of his gun to point at the spot over the Earl's chest. Tanaka began to stir at that, movements quick and still remaining graceful—and it was then that Diederich knew that Tanaka had been trained in some sort of martial arts, though that point was moot since the old man had him pinned to the ground with a stranglehold on his throat.

"Tanaka, enough," came the Watchdog's commanding tone and, as a butler never questioned his lord, Tanaka released his hold on Diederich without a word of protest, leaving the soldier gasping for breath on the floor as he went to stand at the Earl's side—as was proper, according to Vincent, though the Prussian now knew that there was more than met the eye to, perhaps, _any_ of the Phantomhive's servants.

Diederich didn't bother to hide his scowl as he rubbed at his throat, though, propping himself up on an elbow to glare angrily at lord and butler. In answer to that, Vincent smiled and it was pure cat-got-the-canary.

"Since I do wish to keep my original promise to you and you seem to be foolishly stubborn on this one point… how about a game of chess to determine the outcome: you in charge and me as your subordinate or, as I wish, with the both of us as partners."

He didn't want to agree to the offer, but it seemed as if it was the best way to resolve the conflict without resorting to violence—and an excellent military knew how to pick his battles to ensure that he always came out the winner of each outcome.

Besides, he did also have an advantage: by going to the military academy to ensure that he would become an officer, he had been thoroughly trained in the art of tactics and strategy. He had come out the top in his class and, as one of the results, had never lost at a game of chess.

He would win in the end, so what did it matter drawing the issue out a bit longer?

Slightly, Diederich inclined his head towards the Earl, never taking his eyes off of the apparently effeminate, foppish man. "I agree to your proposal."

**XXX**

Diederich had lost.

He stared down at the chessboard, at the black knight that had finally checkmated his king. It shouldn't have happened—he had never lost a game of chess in years and, besides, his white pieces had overtaken the board. So how was it that Earl Phantomhive had managed to win despite the odds?

He glanced up, hazel eyes dark with irritation, and snapped, "You cheated."

Vincent's reply was idle and unconcerned. "I didn't," he answered, shrugging a shoulder at the Prussian's look of disbelief, though the gesture was aborted when his skin began to tighten warningly. "You were arrogant in your movements, thinking that your choices were subtle while they were still relatively straightforward. I allowed you to take my pieces to lull you into assuming that you were winning and thus had less to be concerned about. And then I checkmated you. That is it, and you have lost, Mr. von Wolff."

About to snap at the smarmy bastard again, Diederich paused as a thought occurred to him. Though he was still scowling darkly, he looked Vincent up and down: even though he _knew_ that Vincent was the Queen's Watchdog, the man typically acted so unassuming and unthreatening, and he seemed to be able to easily lull his enemies into a state of complacency. They fell for it—and so had Diederich.

Mulling this thought over, Diederich glanced over at the Watchdog with a much more assessing gaze.

In answer, Vincent just smiled: his eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, lashes falling just enough to brush the beauty mark beneath his left eye, the touch as light as a butterfly's kiss. And his image completely changed, shifting to sultry and dangerous—a lazy cat content for the moment but could just as easily lash out when it chose to do so. "I am what I am," he murmured.

And Diederich finally understood what that truly _meant_.

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's (Brief) Note:_ Thank you all so much for the reviews! It makes me happy knowing that people are enjoying the story thus far! ^^ Hopefully I can continue keeping your interest~ *laughs*

**XXX**

_Chapter Three_

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The one thing that Diederich hadn't expected to see when he came up later on in the day to ask the lord and his butler what they wanted to do about supper was Vincent carefully supported so that he could sit up without pulling too strongly on the wounds over his back—and his butler sitting in a chair next to the bed with a chessboard between the two men.

As before, Vincent was playing black—and the Prussian thought briefly on the symbolism within that, especially since it was always white that moved first and, thus, there might be some who could argue the fact that black was the weaker of the two chess colors—and a small smile tugged at the corner of the Earl's mouth. Tanaka moved then, putting Vincent's king in check, and the Queen's Watchdog laughed quietly. "You're feeling sprightly today, old man," the Earl teased as he moved to take the bishop that had been threatening his key piece.

Tanaka's eyes softened with something akin to pride as his own piece was stolen, and he inclined his head to a brief gesture of acknowledgement. "I always strive to the best of my abilities to present myself as a worthy opponent, my Lord," the butler answered, and Diederich was surprised to hear bemusement in the man's voice.

With the rigidity of the English aristo system, a servant would have never been able to get away with insubordination—as slight as it may have been, as with the tone of Tanaka's voice. That fact and that deviation between these two men made Diederich frown, and he filed away the thought for later consideration when it was late and he was finally alone. Until then, there were other concerns.

Clearing his voice, he rapped neatly on the bedroom door before stepping into the makeshift sickroom. "It'll soon be suppertime, and I wanted to see what you wanted to do about it." Diederich figured that Vincent would probably be needing certain foods to balance out the malnourishment that he had suffered while captive, and though the Prussian's food was passable… it was still very military-esque. Perhaps Tanaka would do a better job at caring for the invalid Earl.

As if following his thoughts, the butler stood at a glance from Vincent, bowing slightly with a hand pressed over his heart; the gesture should have been ironic—certainly easy to mock—but Diederich couldn't find anything than utter sincerity in it. "If you'll excuse me, my Lord, I shall prepare a meal for both yourself and Mr. von Wolff immediately."

"Colonel," the Prussian corrected before Tanaka could leave the room. "I'm usually a soldier, and my ranking is 'Colonel.'" He glanced at the butler, gaze flat as he waited for a response. Tanaka, however, remained unfazed and just inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the correction as he left the room.

"Colonel, mmm?" Vincent murmured as he carefully eased back onto the pillows at the head of the bed, hissing out softly as his weight settled upon his back. When he was able to catch his breath once more, the Earl continued, "You must be quite the decorated man, von Wolff."

Diederich scoffed at that, snorting in derision as he sprawled indolently in the chair that the butler had vacated just a short while before. "It doesn't matter," he answered shortly, tone warning Vincent to drop the topic—the decorations didn't matter, had never mattered to Diederich; it was the actions that counted most, the knowledge—even if it was only to himself—that he was bringing his homeland into a newer, better way of life.

His Imperial and Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl was a breath of fresh air, one that the Empire had been in desperate need of for years. As with Princess Victoria, Friedrich's consort, Diederich's own mother had been English—one of the Princess' maids of honor that had accompanied her into the new land that she was to make her own. The Prussian's father had seen her, had decided to make her his wife, and then they had married.

Diederich had rarely seen his father, what with the fact that the General had always been called away by Chancellor Otto von Bismarck and Kaiser Wilhelm Friedrich Ludwig, and so the English Lady had been the one to raise the Prussian lordling. Diederich had eventually followed his father into leading a military career of his own, but… his mother's lessons had always been held close within his heart.

She had taught him to be a man that she could be proud of.

His body belonged to Prussia, but Diederich's heart and soul were claimed by England.

Diederich shook his head slightly, moving away from such thoughts; they were dangerous to have in the best of times, and they were foolhardy to linger over when he sat opposite the most dangerous man in England. Seeing the attention that was given over to him, hazel eyes suddenly sharp and leery, Vincent gave a small, indulgent smile.

"Though you say that it doesn't matter, Colonel, I would argue otherwise," the Earl corrected, voice soft. Before Diederich could snap at him, however, Vincent continued on speaking, "But it appears to be a touchy subject for you, so we can easily move on to a different subject. Please, if you would, tell me a bit more about the assignment that you have been given and that you require my help on."

Frowning and irritated at the fact that his original objection had been ignored—despite the fact that Vincent _had_ set it aside—Diederich snorted slightly and glanced off to the side to watch the sky darken through the window.

"Evidence has been uncovered," Diederich began after a moment of silence. He had been torn on how much to reveal to the Watchdog, and it was only the fact that Vincent had won their chess game that made Diederich lay all of the cards out on the table. Stifling his lingering annoyance at having been thusly trapped, the Prussian sleeper agent eventually continued after seeing Vincent quirk an eyebrow in inquiry. "Evidence has been uncovered that reveals an underground smuggling ring. Slaves are being imported into London."

Both of Vincent's eyebrows rose at that. "I haven't heard anything regarding this," he murmured, obviously intrigued by the case that had been assigned to his fellow agent. "It's interesting that they have been smuggling slaves—adults and children, I suppose?—into London since this has been a touchy subject since Somersett's case in 1772. And with the Slavery Abolition Act in 1833…"

The Queen's Watchdog's eyes narrowed briefly as he mused to himself, mentally reviewing the documents that he had read concerning the issue before, the various histories that he had been tutored in as he had been growing up; Claudia Phantomhive had ensured that her son's education was thorough, and the information that Diederich had just given to him was weighed carefully against the facts that he had been taught.

Eventually, though, Vincent spoke once more: "What country are the smugglers exporting the slaves from?"

The question was one that Diederich hadn't been expecting, and he took several moments in answering as he considered _why_ Vincent was asking about the country of origin. It didn't take long to realize that he couldn't follow Vincent's reasoning—the man's mind was frighteningly labyrinthine, so twisted that Diederich had given up trying to understand the Watchdog's thought processes—and gave a small shrug in answer. "From what has been discovered thus far, it appears that the smugglers are bringing them in from Brazil."

Vincent hummed in answer, and Diederich waited for the comment that he knew was coming after that particular statement.

…the commentary never came, however, and Diederich wished that Vincent would speak his mind so that the Prussian could know what it was that the Earl was planning—especially since, after all, this _had_ originally been his mission. When Vincent finally spoke, though, it came with a sidelong glance and another quirked eyebrow. "Why were you the one assigned to this case?" he asked, nothing but idle curiosity present in the tone of his voice.

Diederich bared his teeth in an expression that was more threatening than smile-esque. "I am Prussian, and I make my home within the German Empire," he answered when Vincent just raised that eyebrow a bit higher. "Why would anyone assume that I would care about the illegal activities that happen in England, just as long as they remain in England?"

Tilting his head to the side, the Watchdog inquired, "So the Queen is deliberating playing on your role as a sleeper agent…?" At Diederich's short nod, Vincent then asked, "And why is it that you finally decided on having me as a partner?"

Finally given something that he didn't have to be _completely_ honest about, the soldier smirked and said in reply, "I don't speak Portuguese. You do."

Bemused at the word trap that he had fallen into, Vincent snorted internally at Diederich's retort and didn't bother to say anything in answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bed's headboard until he heard Diederich shift and pick himself up from the chair, making his way towards the door.

He paused, though, before he was completely out of the room. "You will be required to gather your strength as quickly as you can, Earl. We must leave within the next several days; heal as fast as you can while lazing about in the bed, for the rest of your recovery must be done on the ship as we make our way to Brazil."

Vincent hummed in answer, letting Diederich know that he had heard the other man, and all then became quiet for several long, relaxing moments before Tanaka returned to the bedroom with a tray full of the types of food that he would need to "gather his strength as quickly as" he could. It would have been nice to have the chance to heal a bit more, but time was of the essence when the natural rights of men were being violated in blatant, inhumane ways.

As he sipped at his broth, Vincent's mind wandered back to the days where he had sat in one of the drawing rooms at the Phantomhive manor, tracing a finger over a medallion as his then-tutor spoke of the indignities that men made other men suffer through. As the man's words continued on, the boy's finger had traced the words that had resonated deep within him—even now, years later, the starkness of the truth written there was still very much remembered: _Am I Not A Man And A Brother?_

Breaking apart the bread that Tanaka had brought with the broth and milk, Vincent soaked the piece for several moments in the broth before eating it with quick, neat bites. Cleaning his fingers with a linen napkin, he finally murmured, "I'll be needing you to pack my trunk back at the townhouse. We'll be leaving for Brazil within the week, and I'll need to be as ready—and as healed—as possible."

"Of course, my Lord. I'll prepare your things while you finish up with dinner," Tanaka said promptly in answer, the expected reply that Vincent had spent years relying upon: whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, Tanaka was always sure to have it ready. The man was a stable foundation within the ever-changing, violent chaos within the Watchdog's life. The butler had stood at his mother's side, had remained at Vincent's own: and though Tanaka was old, Vincent hoped that he would be there to stand, too, at the side of Vincent's future heir.

As the Japanese man gave his short, trademark bow before heading towards the bedroom's door, Vincent added on, "Also, when you return, I'd very much like a bath." With a nod, Tanaka left.

The thought of a bath contented Vincent all through his meal; the thought of now getting the chance to wipe away the fear-sweat that hours and days of torture had brought to his skin, of cleaning away the grime of his cell and of getting the chance to sleep for the first time in a week and a half with soaped hair against a laundered pillow… Vincent had always known that he was one of the more austere nobles amongst the Ton, and he had been comfortable with the fact that he didn't particularly like to flaunt his wealth.

But it was captivity that had finally taught the Earl that he, too, took full advantage of all of the little privileges that the aristos were entitled to—and cleanliness and regular bathing was, apparently, the advantage of being landed and wealthy that Vincent took full advantage of. He hadn't realized until his capture just how much he had always looked forward to his daily baths, just how nice it felt having a linen napkin to wipe his fingers on once he was done with a meal.

He _craved_ being clean again—and at least he could admit to himself that the strength of that craving was linked back to the torture and other abuses that had been done to him while he had been vulnerable and beneath other men's tender mercies.

Still: those were thoughts that Vincent didn't want to consider when he had something pleasant to look forward to, and his smile was softer than usual when Tanaka finally returned with his toilette and clothing that would be needed as they made their way across the Atlantic.

"Do you need help getting up, my Lord?" the butler asked as he picked the food tray off of the Earl's lap to set aside on a beside table, intending on taking it down to the kitchen later on that evening.

In reply, Vincent just shook his head as he carefully began to push himself upright, exceptionally careful of his back—not wanting to do anything too sudden or too strenuous that would set back his healing period. "Let me see if I can do it on my own, Tanaka," the Watchdog murmured as he analyzed his own movements, his own strengths and capabilities.

He was weaker than he had originally thought, though not as weak as he _could_ be.

It remained disappointing, however.

"Here, my Lord," Tanaka said as he began to help Vincent undress and, when he finally got to them, unwinding the bandages that had been wrapped around the Earl's torso by the butler's efficient hands earlier. With Vincent nude, Tanaka helped steady the too-slim man as Vincent stepped over a metal basin and into the warm water that awaited him.

With the damage done to his back, it would have been impossible to take a normal bath—the hot metal of the tub would have agitated his wounds, would have made them sting more than the soap and water would as Vincent leaned back to relax. So the only option left to both the aristo and his butler was to take extra care of the damage done to the noble and bathe him by hand through a sponge bath.

Despite the fact that it wasn't completely what Vincent wanted, it still remained more than he had expected—and that was good enough for now.

His eyes closed as Tanaka carefully poured the first bucket of warm water over his head, silencing the hiss of pain as it sluiced over his back; Vincent knew that the loyal butler hated the thought of harming his lord, even if it was done unintentionally and, regardless, even with the best of intentions—and so Vincent ensured that the sound never made it past his lips though the skin around his eyes tightened in reaction to the agony.

Despite the pain, Vincent couldn't stop his sigh of pleasure as Tanaka silently ran his soaped sponge over one leg. The dirt seemed to just melt away beneath the meticulous attention that the butler paid in getting Vincent clean, and the Earl didn't bother to hide his feelings of contentment as skin once more re-emerged from beneath the layer of filth. The thought of being clean, truly _clean_, again filled him with delight even though the realization of his fastidiousness would be a weakness that his enemies might one day exploit. But that was then and this was _now_, and Vincent was determined to not let anything disrupt his enjoyment of the bath.

Of course, in a move typical of the universe's sense of irony, that was _also_ the very moment when Diederich walked through the bedroom door.

"Phantomhive—" Diederich began before stopping abruptly when he realized that the Earl was no longer dressed and was very, very naked. And, with dawning shock, it was then that the Prussian realized just how truly attractive Vincent was with the grime and torture-sweat cleaned away.

The Englishman's skin was pale, surprisingly so considering how active Diederich had heard that he was. The water caused it to gleam subtly in the muted lantern lights of the bedroom, and the drops that fell one-by-one from the strands of Vincent's hair and into the tub at his feet were, for the most part, the only sound heard in the room occupied by the three startled men.

Vincent was also, Diederich noted as his gaze took in bits and pieces of details that he didn't want to necessarily know, slim—obviously typically slender since his build hinted towards that inclination, but with the starvation that the noble had suffered, he was much thinner than was normal. Vincent's collarbones stood out starkly, the hollow at the base of his throat deeper than usual. Muscle had been lost over the man's torso, giving his upper body an almost effeminate figure despite the fact that Diederich had seen with his own two eyes just how strong the Watchdog was in actuality. The other man's waist tapered down to hips that were arched sharply, creating a swimmer's etched "V," and then—

Diederich averted his eyes suddenly, ignoring how the tips of his ears suddenly flamed with heat. "I apologize," he said as he headed back out the door. "I had made arrangements for our travel, but I'll tell you the details once your bath is done and you are once more dressed."

Vincent could only blink in surprise as the door firmly "click"ed as the Prussian shut it.

**XXX**

Hours later, Diederich listened as the bells of the city tolled midnight. He hadn't been able to fall asleep, leaving him to stare up at the ceiling above his bed and mull over—images. Memories of earlier that evening, when he had unintentionally walked in on Vincent in the middle of the aristo's bath.

And though it had been an accident, Diederich couldn't bring himself to feel contrite for the intrusion, not with the rapier-thin strength that he saw Vincent contained within his body. It was an elegant grace, a danger that most wouldn't be able to recognize until it was too late. Though the comparison had come to the Prussian several times before, Vincent truly reminded Diederich of a hunting jungle cat—perhaps the leopard, hidden in the branches of a tree as it waited to strike down its prey, or maybe even the panther that blended in with the shadows of the night.

It didn't matter, really.

Regardless, Vincent was both beautiful and deadly, and for the first time in months, Diederich felt the sharp ache of _want_; it was a deeper ache than usual, knowing that this man could match him in intelligence, was stunning in appearance, and hunted successfully on multiple stages. Knowing that and knowing, too, that that knowledge was sinking within his body as the unblunted edge of craving tugged at his belly…

It was so easy to picture Vincent's blue eyes shining in the muted glow of moonlight, was so easy to imagine the taste of the aristo's skin as Diederich scraped his teeth over the current too-stark shape of Vincent's hip, was too easy to imagine the delicious hitch in Vincent's voice as the Englishman's body bowed slightly off of the bed and his legs shifted to settle Diederich closer.

With a shudder, Diederich eased a hand beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms to stroke fingers over his already hard cock, the Prussian's eyes closed as he sunk himself into the dream that was just-barely acceptable during the witching hour.

~TBC~


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

Despite the fact that the tickets on the passenger ship were bought and paid for, Diederich had expected Vincent to try his best to delay their journey so that he might have the chance to heal a bit more. So it was most definitely with some surprise that the Prussian found himself boarding the _Village Belle_ four days later, with Captain Little waiting for their boarding at the top of the gang plank.

"Good morning!" the red-haired and full bearded man greeted Diederich and Vincent as the two were fully aboard. He ignored the other passengers in favor of his noble ones, having heard that a military man and an Earl in the German Empire had purchased two tickets from the booth he had originally bought them from. With a jolly smile and a brown gaze that was warm with curiosity, he shook the agents' hands; Diederich put up with the friendliness with barely a grimace while Vincent shook Captain Little's hand in return, a brief tightening of the skin about his eyes the only sign that the gesture pained him.

"Good morning to you, dear Captain," Vincent said in answer, and Diederich started slightly at the blue-eyed man's sudden German accent, and the soldier glanced askance at the Queen's Watchdog. Vincent's small smirk was the only warning that the Prussian was given before the Englishman continued, "I cannot truly say how honored I am that you have come to personally welcome us aboard. I am Roderich Nikolaus von Wolff, and this is my older brother, Earl Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

And while Vincent was chatting amiably with the Captain, Diederich could only stare at Vincent, gaze burning into the side of the foppish Englishman's face; was fashioning themselves as brothers the _only_ undercover story that the Phantomhive could come up with? It made that night several days ago that much more… complicated.

As the introductions were finishing and Captain Little began to lead the two men to his cabin for lunch to welcome the two nobles, Diederich just bothered to respond to the other man's inane chatter with monosyllabic grunts, letting Vincent be the one to cover the conversation more thoroughly—which was, apparently, what the Englishman excelled at. He kept up an engaging conversational thread and, with it, Diederich could see first hand why the man was talented in politics and business both, as well as why his performance before parts of the underworld had been flawless up until recently.

The Prussian watched as Vincent easily charmed the ship's Captain, the perfect gentleman without fashioning himself as an arrogant member of Society. And Diederich was once more reminded of just how incredibly dangerous the Watchdog was. Appearances were deceiving, and the point was further driven in when Vincent caught his eye: the Phantomhive's gaze was cool and calculating.

"So what made you decide upon a visit to Brazil? If you don't mind my saying… With men as civilized as yourselves, it doesn't seem as if it would be a place to vacation, my Lords," Captain Little commented offhandedly as they settled at the table in the jovial man's own cabin. Several of the ship's crew entered into the suite of rooms, bringing dishes filled with food for the three men's meal.

Vincent smiled at that, holding up a finger to his mouth as he gave the man a playful wink. "Oh, but we're not going for a vacation there," he answered in a lulling murmur. "Diederich and I were thinking about starting a plantation on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro or Salvador. While Brazil doesn't seem to be the best choice for starting a plantation…" Here, the Phantomhive shrugged, splaying his fingers elegantly over the chair's arms. "The Colonies are still reeling from the impact and consequences of their Civil War, so there would be no point in beginning anything there. Besides, there will be required manpower to keep the plantation running…"

Here, Vincent trailed off, knowing that the Captain would realize that he was referring to the slave trade that was still very much active within Brazil—the true reason why he and Diederich were going to the still-young country, so that they might stop the trade of illegal slaves into England and, thus, alleviate Her Majesty's fears.

But in order to get to the heart of the matter, one had to always present one's self as a person who was heavily involved in the scene.

As Diederich watched Vincent expertly play Captain Little, eyebrows furrowed slightly in thought to observe the easy manipulation, the elevated member of England's "Polite" Society continued on with his conversation thread, "Besides, having a home to retreat to during the German winters would be wonderful—particularly if that home was tropical."

"Ah!" Captain Little laughed in answer, lightly patting his protruding belly before digging into the meal that was placed before them. "I can't blame you for that, my boy. I myself was thinking of making a home in the West Indies. Warm sand and robin's egg blue water for as far as the eye can see. It's heaven, isn't it, after living through one too many winters?"

Neatly swallowing the beef presented to them after also neatly chewing it, Vincent patted his mouth before once more placing the napkin down so that he might answer. "Dear sir, we couldn't agree more—hence why Diederich and I are going out to see if this endeavor is possible." His smile was soft, kind—and perhaps the Captain interpreted it as flirtatious because those cow-dull eyes suddenly sharpened with interest.

Seeing that, Diederich instinctively snarled—the first sound other than monosyllabic grunts that he had uttered since originally boarding the ship—and reached out to clamp his fingers around Vincent's wrist. The Captain abruptly paled, knowing the danger that was before him; the Queen's Watchdog had no particular reaction except tilting his head to the side so that he could look at Diederich from the corner of his eyes, gaze suddenly assessing and contemplative. It was, however, just a quick flicker and he was soon enough redirecting his attention back to Captain Little.

"Please forgive my brother," Vincent murmured quietly, patting Diederich lightly atop his forearm. "He's rather overprotective because I was a sickly child; he oftentimes sees danger where there isn't any. Of course."

Captain Little took the graceful opening to agree with Vincent; his answers from that point on, though, were nothing more than bluster and it showed with small, fleeting glances over to Diederich to see if the Colonel still saw him as a threat, blanching at the dark look upon the military man's face. And Diederich? The Prussian spent the entire meal scowling at the wall just behind Captain Little's shoulder.

It was close enough to the man's face that the Captain wouldn't bother trying anything with Vincent again, though far enough away so that Diederich wouldn't have to look at the man while the meal progressed, though now with an anxious undertone. His own reaction to the thought of Captain Little coming on to Vincent was… disturbing. It was unnatural to react so strongly to a man that he had just recently met, no matter how engaging and intelligent and dangerous he was—and beautiful, too, which reminded Diederich of—

The tips of his ears flamed in embarrassment, though the Captain thought it rage and stuttered out his comment to Vincent, paling and looking down briefly while the Phantomhive head's eyes rolled in annoyed bemusement at them both.

But Diederich wanted, as wrong as that emotion was to feel while working with this man and while undercover on a mission—and playing at being brothers, no less, and yet… the _want_ continued on, as strong as ever and pulsing hungrily low in his belly. And the thought of someone else trying to take away this man before he had the chance to court Vincent and hopefully coax and arouse his interest in turn—ah, that thought filled Diederich with possessive jealousy, as absurd as the feeling currently was.

They were not lovers. He had no right to feel such a way.

But imaging the Captain's pudgy hand reaching out to rest on Vincent's forearm, believing that he had privileges where he did not: the rage and the jealousy flared higher, despite how illogical it was and how contrary to his actual, true nature—and turned his head just slightly enough to the side to catch Captain Little's attention. Diederich's eyes _burned_, and the man once more stuttered; this time, however, he came to a stop and the rest of the meal was spent in awkward silence.

By the time it was over, Diederich was only too glad to leave.

He stalked towards their cabin, heeled boots ringing against the corridors. However, when they got to an empty one with no person in sight or hearing, Vincent reached out and wrapped his fingers tight around Diederich's wrist. His grip was as unyielding as iron, and he yanked the Prussian to a stop with a slight pained hiss.

"Why?" he asked, knowing full well that Diederich would understand what it was that he was asking. The Phantomhive's blue eyes were implacable, as quietly deadly as he ever was. This man—this _Englishman_, the irony of ironies—was able to meet him move for move. Diederich had always assumed that, one day, he would meet a woman that he could marry: pretty, in a soft and sensual way, but as pragmatic as he was. He would have spent much of his time away from her, and he wanted someone who would have been able to accept that—accept the fact that his job was everything to him and that his duty would always come first. Nothing could change that.

Everything that he could ever want in a wife… he found in Vincent Phantomhive, discovering things about himself that he had never before considered: that he found the "V" of the other's hips intriguing, wanted to explore the skin there with lips and teeth; discovered, too, that he was possessive—wanting to lay claim to this man that he truly had no claim _to_. The Prussian discovered that Vincent was as pragmatic as he could ever want, but instead of the submissive acceptance that he would have expected from a wife, Vincent was coolly challenging, he refused to back away during a conquest. He was a _man_, and a dangerous one—and Diederich had before thought himself interested in only women, but the burning ache of want gave lie to that.

It didn't matter that he had only known the Englishman for just a few short days; he had seen Vincent go under torture and not break, he had seen the man's intelligence as he used Diederich's own pride against him to gain what he wanted the most. He refused to take orders but was willing to compromise—an edged contradiction that Diederich still wasn't sure that he understood completely, he was not afraid to kill, and Vincent had eyes that cut through everything he saw, viewing both the good and the bad of the world while not flinching away from either, and Vincent was chameleon enough to reside within both sides.

It didn't _matter_ that Diederich had only known the blue-eyed man for a few short days. Those days had been spent with Vincent without the masks that he wore in public, and the man who resided within the iron fortress of his will… _that man_ was Diederich's match.

"Damn me to hell for catching interest in you in the first place," Diederich snarled in German before reaching out; he cupped Vincent's face between his hands, gloves warm over the other man's cheeks—soft, too, as Diederich stroked his thumbs over arched cheekbones. And then his mouth descended.

The Prussian's lips were hungry against Vincent's own, and his tongue flicked through the other man's parted lips to swallow a gasp of surprise, and it wasn't long after that Diederich was plundering Vincent's mouth: he tasted of the dessert wine that he had drunk during their meal, lips slightly chapped enough to create an edge of friction to encourage a rumble of approval from Diederich—and, just there, the hazel-eyed man found a tooth that was chipped and spent the next several moments tracing that sharp edge at his leisure.

It was just enough time, as well, for Vincent to finally recover from his surprise.

What, in turn, surprised Diederich was the fact Vincent did not push him away; instead, the Phantomhive heir dug his fingers into the Prussian's hair, nails scratching roughly over the soldier's scalp, and dragged Diederich closer still. He sucked lewdly on Diederich's tongue—_Where the hell did he learn how to do__** that**__?_, Diederich thought as he moaned quietly against Vincent's mouth—and slipped a leg between Diederich's thighs to press snugly against the taller man's erection.

The Colonel rocked against Vincent's thigh, angling the both of them to cage Vincent in his hold without putting pressure on the other man's still-injured back, and loved the way that the Englishman arched his throat in pleasure at both Diederich's weight and the leg that rubbed teasingly against his own erection.

"If anyone else sees you as you are now, I'll kill them," the Prussian promised, tone flat and eyes hard, and he dipped his head to scrape his teeth over the bend of Vincent's throat. The Earl's breath hitched and he gave a murmuring sound that Diederich could have sworn was a purr, and Diederich latched his teeth into the pale skin: drawing it roughly into his mouth, he nipped and bit harder, wanting to bruise the skin just above the nobleman's collar so that anyone who looked at Vincent would know that he was taken and claimed—and claimed _thoroughly_ at that.

It was feeling Vincent arching up into his hold, throat bared and allowing the possessive claiming that finally had Diederich coming in his pants like a cadet at the academy, still unused to control—and wet dreams. He groaned against the mark that he had left, pressing his groin snugly against the sharp edge of Vincent's hip, and took a moment to breathe and bask in the warm feeling of smug masculine satisfaction.

Of course, Vincent had to cut it short.

The Earl chuckled quietly as Diederich's chest brushed his own with every breath he took; Vincent knew that the Prussian was sated after feeling his orgasm: content to sprawl lazily, like a lion full after a meal, and he—in turn—felt his own smug masculine satisfaction at bringing the normally composed military man to such a state. Idly, his hand smoothed over the curve of Diederich's shoulder, clutching at the wool that stretched across broad, muscled shoulders.

"What a unique way of answering my original question," Vincent chuckled softly, lashes lidding his eyes and hiding his gaze from Diederich. A small, pleased smile toyed about his lips: it was obvious that he was content—more than content—with how things had turned out, and a finger trailed possessively over the Prussian's still pounding pulse.

"Shut up," Diederich growled at Vincent's smarminess, easing a hand down to cup over the Englishman's ass. Carefully, he shifted the Watchdog upwards so that he could slide a leg between Vincent's thighs in turn, moving in such a way to allow the slimmer man to ride it—while unsnapping the top several buttons to the nobleman's trousers to draw out the Earl's cock. He smirked at Vincent's sharp inhale, stroking over the velvety skin at his own leisure. His fingers caressed down the shaft, fingertips almost tickling against the thick vein at the underside of the Earl's cock; stroking down suddenly, his fingers curled snugly around the base of Vincent's erection in a makeshift cockring while his mouth sealed possessively over one pierced ear.

Diederich had always been praised for his observational skills—and he had seen how sensitive Vincent's ears where in how the Earl gave a slight, nearly unidentifiable shiver as strands caressed over the pale lobe. And those observations paid off:

Vincent's hands suddenly clutched tight at Diederich's shoulders, fingers digging harshly into wool and muscle as his mind blanked with pleasure-static. "You're—bastard—" he managed to whisper huskily before words failed him and Diederich's touch became his world. He writhed, bucking up against the hold that the Prussian had on his cock while his fingers tugged at the taller man's hair demandingly—wanting completion and snarling angrily with flashing, flaring eyes when Diederich denied him it.

Perhaps it was why Diederich hadn't expected what Vincent ended up doing: his thighs clamped down on the Prussian's leg, and—with an impish chuckle—he captured the Prussian's other hand to bring up to his mouth. Pulling away so that Diederich could no longer attempt to distract him, Vincent's eyes were dark and intent as he licked a line up Diederich's middle finger before taking it into the warmth of his mouth. Eyes still catching Diederich's, compelling the soldier to watch—gaze reminiscent of a hunting cat's—he began to suck on the strong, work-calloused digit as his hips rocked against Diederich's thigh in time.

"You fight dirty, Phantomhive," Diederich snarled before freeing his finger to claim Vincent's mouth for his own. Deepening the kiss immediately, his now-freed hand cupped the back of Vincent's head to keep the Earl still as his other hand began to stroke faster, harder—twisting gently and tugging just rough enough to have Vincent moaning into the kiss.

It wasn't long before Vincent was finally tensing, body arching to press snugly against Diederich's own as he orgasmed in turn, coating Diederich's palm and fingers with his come. It didn't make Diederich stop his stroking, however, though he did slow it down: rubbing and exploring more thoroughly, fingers slick and sticky but pleased with the knowledge that Vincent had allowed this to happen because the Queen's Watchdog was strong and powerful enough to have forced Diederich away if he wasn't interested in what the Prussian had to immediately offer him—which, with any luck, meant that Diederich intrigued him enough to consider him further.

It wasn't the bone-deep want that Diederich himself felt, but it was a start. And a start was all that the Prussian required because he knew that Vincent would have never met a man quite like himself before—and would know, too, just what that entailed for the both of them. He was confident enough in himself for that because Vincent was smart enough, sharp enough to see what the Prussian had already seen.

The thought contented him just as much as Vincent's continued low purring as the kiss stretched further onwards. All the while, his mind raced as he considered how to go about coaxing Vincent to remain at his side, using this particular mission as a way to court this man into considering him for more intimate activities long after the assignment had finished.

The thought also made Diederich smile into the kiss, for which Vincent promptly nipped him.

~TBC~


End file.
